


Petrichor

by foxfood



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Charles Is a Darling, Erik is a Sweetheart, Erik is a grumpy gardener, Flowers, Gardens & Gardening, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Misunderstandings, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, basically they are both clueless idiots, cats are assholes, clueless idiots in love, completely ignores seasonal growing times, this au is weird, unrealistically short courtship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxfood/pseuds/foxfood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petrichor:<br/>noun<br/>A pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.<br/>Charles discovers three strange and unexpected things when he moves to the Hemlock Apartment Complex: That the landlord is a grumpy loner, that there is a garden on the roof, and that he might just be falling in love. </p><p>Maybe. I mean, let's not get too sappy here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petrichor

Charles moves in on a Tuesday. It’s raining, big fat drops that splash down into the gutter and run in rivers down the busy streets, and he has to jog a little to get to the entrance of the apartment, cardboard box bouncing against his chest. Even so, he’s damp by the time he slipped inside the old brownstone, and he knows he has 3 more boxes to go back out for. None of this is quite enough to wipe the small smile of his face. Charles is the type of person who is almost offensively optimistic. 

Moira, an old friend from University, had been the one to refer him to the so-called Hemlock Apartment Complex, as she had lived there for a time back when she was still working in the city. She hasn’t explained to him yet why a perfectly nice flat like this one is renting for so cheap, but Charles trusts her. Besides, he’s just happy to have a roof over his head in time for his new job. 

“You look as though you could use a hand,” comes a smooth, slightly accented voice. Eastern European, Charles guesses. He turns to see a tall man with a very pointy goatee staring at him. He appears to have just stepped off the elevator, and he is wearing a suit that looks expensive. He looks out of place in an apartment like this, where everything is old and probably second-hand. 

Charles shrugs sheepishly “I may have chosen rather a miserable day to move boxes,” he admits. “I appreciate the offer, my friend, but I’d hate to make you get your suit wet.”

“How very thoughtful of you. You must be Charles? Azazel.” the man sticks out his hand, which Charles takes (after awkwardly depositing the box on the floor). 

“Er. How’d you know? My name, that is.” he asks, not sure if he should be disturbed or not. Moisture drips down out of his hair and he blinks it out of his eyes. 

“Moira Mactaggart.” 

“Oh. Right. She must have been well known here,” Charles says. 

Azazel nods, grinning. “Moira is a lovely woman.” 

Well. Charles certainly can’t argue with that. He smiles generously, which the man returns somewhat sharply and widely. 

Over the next few minutes, Charles ferries the rest of his meager possessions inside, and at the insistence of Azazel, allows the other to help him carry them up to his apartment. Along the way, he learns a great deal about his new acquaintance, who seems to enjoy sharing; that he is a collector of rare books, and is originally from Russia. He also speaks as though he has stepped out of a an old soviet espionage film, and sometimes laughs unsettlingly. He _also_ appears to be disgustingly rich, but Charles doesn’t ask what he’s doing living in a place like this and not a penthouse. 

They make fairly quick work of the boxes, between the two of them, and Charles is eventually left with another crisp handshake by the door of his new apartment. 

He decides that this is not a bad first impression, as far as neighbors go. Still, he's grateful now to be left to his own to unpack and settle in. He is still soaking, dripping onto his new carpet like a drowned cat, and his stomach is starting to grumble. The jet-lag is also now beginning to catch up with him, and he yearns for a soft bed to collapse into. And he starts work tomorrow. 

With a sigh, he decides to set up his bed first, lest he spend his first night on the couch. 

Outside, the rain continues to pour down, tapping the windowpanes. 

===

When he wakes up in the morning, he forgets where he is. He wonders that he doesn’t hear his roommate snoring anymore. It takes him cracking open one bleary eye to remember that he is in New York now. And that he has to be at the office in half an hour. He all but falls out of the bed. 

Five minutes later, his teeth brushed, bed head hurriedly forced into submission, he is peeling a note off of the front of his door with one hand and adjusting a leather satchel across his shoulder with the other. 

The note says: ‘Hey, apartment 5B. Party tonight in 5C. Meet some people—we don’t bite (probably).’ in what might be described as cute handwriting. For some reason, Charles feels like it was written by a woman. It might be the fact that its signed: —Raven. 

He glances at the door of apartment 5C when he walks by it, on the way to the stairs (he doesn’t quite trust the old elevator just yet) and thinks he can hear music coming from inside. Which is funny, because it’s 8 o’clock in the morning. Raven, he thinks, is likely as peculiar as Azazel. The thought makes him smile. 

Now in a bit of a hurry to get to the subway in time, Charles takes the stairs at a bit of a rush, and crosses the lobby fast enough to get him breathing embarrassingly fast (he really ought to have kept on the ball with running). In fact, he’s so distracted that he manages to run straight into someone. They collide quite spectacularly, and Charles, unfortunately, ends up on the floor. Even more unfortunate is the fact that the other person ends up there too—because he looks ready to take Charles’s head off. 

The other man is tall and lean, and he’s wearing clothes that look like they belong on the set of some crime movie (seriously, who even wears fedoras anymore, besides overweight 22 year olds still living at home with their parents?). It works for him though. Works for Charles, too. 

Charles is admiring the way the shirt stretches across the others chest when he sees the slow spreading brown stain, and he reminded of the fact that he has just crushed into said handsome stranger and spilled the man’s coffee all over him. 

“Oh, bullocks—“ Charles splutters, flailing his arms. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry. God, how clumsy of me.” he begins to sort of pat awkwardly at the stain on the shirt of Tall, Dark, and Glowering, before he realizes what he is doing and yanks his hand quickly away, cheeks flaming. The man is staring at him as though he’s never encountered something like Charles in his life. For his part, Charles can only hope he hasn’t traumatized him too much with the shirt molestation. 

“W-would you believe me if I said I’m in a terrible rush? First day of a new job and all, you’d understand…” he trails off. The man is pushing himself to his feet, still looking two seconds away from murdering Charles. 

Instead, he stalks away, leaving Charles still sprawled out on the old tile floor and saying: “I’ll pay to have it dry-cleaned!” which is greeted with no reply at all. Charles blinks. His tailbone is bruised and he’s feeling awfully flustered. The man hadn’t said a word to him, but—if looks could kill! 

Looking at his watch reminds him that he now only has about ten minutes to get himself onto the subway, or he's going to be making the worst first impression of his working career. The thought is enough to send him scrambling to his feet once more, though he makes an effort to look where he is going, after that. 

 

Charles chose social work because he is a bleeding heart liberal. Well, that is what his step-brother Cain likes to say about it. What is true is that Charles had been on the track to earning a ph.d in Biology, but had decided to drop out of Oxford, move to New York, and counsel troubled teens instead. It’s funny how things work out. 

His first day had gone pretty much how he had expected it to go. In the end, he had been a bit late, but a few well aimed doses of British charm had ensured that it went largely unnoticed. He had settled into his office, met his co-workers, and read up on the files of the kids he was going to be working with. 

He’s quite exhausted by the time he gets back to the building, but he decides he’s going to visit 5C anyway. Partially because he wants too; mostly because he runs into Azazel on the stairs and the older man practically drags him there, saying cheerfully: “Socializing, Charles. A lovely pastime.” 

It’s noisy and smoky inside the apartment, which is immediately identifiable as the residence of a college student, if the band posters and pop-type music blasting is anything to go by. Azazel sticks out here like a sore thumb, (he’s wearing a deep red suit-vest today) but he drifts into the middle of things with startling ease. Charles is just sort of towed along behind him, until they get to the kitchen and are greeted by the sight of a young woman. She lets out a little noise of excitement when she sees Azazel, waving one heavily inked-up arm. 

“Azazel!” her eyes slide over to Charles. “Azazel and friend,” she admonishes. 

Azazel has tilted his head, and his looking at the girl’s left shoulder, where it is barred by her attention-grabbing tank top. “So you have been to the parlor again, Raven. You know how I feel about the tattoos.” he says, nodding at the blue geometric pattern spiraling across one creamy shoulder. Raven snorts. 

“Never mind that—you have got to be the new guy.” she turns her avid gaze on Charles, who shuffles from foot to foot, a bit put off by the sheer intensity with which she seems to do everything. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come. We have so many hermits in this building, I swear. It’s Raven, by the way.” 

“Charles,” returns Charles weakly. He is a bit distressed to see that Azazel has drifted away somehow without him noticing, leaving Charles to fend for himself. 

“Oooh.” Raven coos, dark lined eyes widening. “Are you British?” someone brushes by Charles’s shoulder and is shoving a drink into his hand before he can really do anything about it. He shrugs. 

“Well, technically no, not born there anyway. But I lived in England for a while when I was in school. I’m afraid I took to the accent pretty keenly.” He shuffles a bit closer to her, jostled by the sweaty bodies. “What did you mean, a lot of hermits live here? So far everyone I’ve met has been pretty welcoming…” okay, so he’s only met Azazel and Raven. He’s exchanged a ‘good afternoon’ with the old woman in apartment 2F. 

She grins at him conspiratorially. “I’ll take it you haven’t seen the roof yet, then.” Charles frowns, a bit non-plussed. 

“The roof?” 

Raven pats him on the shoulder, looking up at the ceiling as though she can see through it. Her hair is very, very blue, and she looks pleased to be able to impart this tidbit of local gossip to a new and clueless victim. “There’s a freaking garden up there! On the roof, I mean. Sounds awesome, right?” she doesn’t give him time to agree with her. “Well, it would be, if anybody was allowed up there. But we can’t. It’s part of Lehnsherr’s _lair_.” she says the name like one might say ‘bigfoot’ or ‘the Lockness monster’. “He rarely comes out, too, except to go to work. Apparently he’s some high-powered business man or something. But it’s the weirdest thing. He gets his mail brought up to him and he glares at everyone.” 

Charles raises his eyebrow, and takes a sip of the beer, which is rather flat. “Sounds… mysterious.” _and a bit silly._ he adds privately. “How come he’s the only one allowed up there? Shouldn’t the roof belong to the owner of the building?” 

Her mouth falls comically open at this, and she shakes her head slowly. “Charles… he does own the building. He’s the landlord.” 

Oh. Charles feels a bit stupid, for not knowing this. But then, he had signed his lease with a woman named Emma, who had blond hair and had smiled at him like he was something good to eat, not this reclusive Lehnsherr person, who quite frankly is beginning to sound a bit like Boo Radley or something. He tells Raven as much, and she laughs at him. 

“Oh, I quite like you, Charles,” she says and pats his shoulder again. 

Charles proceeds to get thoroughly, thoroughly drunk, and decides that he kind of likes Raven, too. 

In the end its Azazel (the man reappearing around midnight as if summoned) who half-carries Charles back to his apartment, even though the process probably rumples his nice vest . Charles tries to remember to apologize but he’s just awfully tired and he tends to mumble a lot when he’s drunk, so it doesn’t really come out right.

“There, there. Hush.” Azazel says in his accented voice, pushing an already falling asleep Charles onto the couch in his apartment. He tucks an afghan over the shorter man’s shoulders, strangely tender.“Foolish little one.” 

Charles is already asleep by the time Azazel leaves, shutting the light off behind him. He dreams of a garden on the top of a roof, and a tall, lean man, up to his elbows in dirt dark as coffee. 

====

Over the following month, Charles gradually settles into life in the Hemlock Apartment Complex. It feels like sinking down into a comfortable armchair after a long day at work, that’s how quickly he begins to feel as at home. A week or so is long enough for him to stop being alarmed by the violin playing that erupts from Azazel’s apartment at seemingly random hours and two weeks finds him regularly spending time with Raven, who he has taken to swimmingly. 

He thinks fondly that she is kind of like the sister he never had—though he hasn’t quite been able to bring himself to go to another of her parties, not after the hangover the last one had left him with (entirely his fault, of course). 

Work and the gradual process that is shelving his many books has left him very little time to think about that first encounter with Angry Coffee Man (as he has come to think of him), and besides craning his neck from the street below sometimes, he hasn’t tried to get a look at the mythical rooftop garden. 

He thinks about neither of these things again until one sunny day, when Mrs. Marlin’s cat gets stuck on the fire escape. 

“Oh, my poor little Waddles! What if he falls?” exclaims Mrs. Marlin, clutching at the collar of her sweater and looking at Charles significantly. He sighs. Elderly Mrs. Marlin lives in an apartment on the second floor, and while she is in general a very sweet old woman who has taken to sometimes leaving casseroles on his doorstep, she is also rather besotted with him. Raven thinks it's hilarious. 

Waddles is one of Mrs. Marlin many cats. They seem to always be escaping her apartment and getting themselves stuck in increasingly remote and fantastic locations, which has resulted in three calls to the fire department in as many weeks. Quite frankly, Charles is sick of firemen tramping up and down the old and creaking stairs of the building at all hours of the day, which is why he impulsively offers to rescue Waddles himself. Also he is a kind-hearted social worker and apparently saving cats for nice old ladies is something his sort does. 

Mrs. Marlin gasps and clutches at his arm. “Would you really? Oh, please be careful, Charles dear.” Charles smiles wanly at her, assures her he will be the picture of caution, then goes to find that damned cat. 

 

Really, he ought to have thought it through a bit more. The fire escape, as in many old buildings, runs from ground floor to the roof, and, is well— old. And rickety. Rusty. A deathtrap, really. 

The wind whistles in Charles ears, and he picks his way up the metal contraption with utmost care. His fingers, where they are clenched on the railing, are practically white, and every step seems to send an ominous tremor out under his feet. He wonders how something like this is even legal in today’s age of safety precautions and lawsuits, and decides that if he dies trying to rescue a bloody cat, he’s going to seriously pissed off. 

“Waddles, c’mere, boy,” he calls softly, feeling like an idiot. He’s about 5 stories off the ground, now, and he can just see the edge of the roof above him. A particularly harsh gust of wind shakes the fire escape, making Charles blanch. “Oh, for fucks sake,” he gets out, “You stupid cat, where the hell are you?” he’s not usually one to curse, but, desperate times. 

Apparently there is a God however, for a shaky mew comes from above him and his head snaps to look up, heart leaping. Sure enough, there is Waddles, the plump tabby looking every bit as scared as Charles, and crouched (naturally) at the very top of the fire escape—the bit just before it becomes a ladder off of the roof. 

_Am I really doing this?_ Charles wonders, before he begins to inch his way up, keeping his blue eyes fixed on the cat. “Don’t move,” he pleads. If it doesn’t understand the words, perhaps the cat will have the good sense not to try something stupid this far off the ground. 

Or not. Charles, who has just reached the top landing, lets out a curse as the cat, with the air of someone attempting a valiant but desperate last stand, makes a wild leap for the top of the roof. Despite its nonathletic figure, it manages the jump quite cleanly, sailing up and over the lip of the roof and leaving a panting, shaking Charles Xavier with a difficult decision to make. 

Does he dare follow Waddles up onto the roof? These are the kind of questions that keep people up at night. 

Raven’s words from the party seem to echo in his mind— _Lehnsherr’s lair_ —and he wonders absently if you can be evicted for trespassing. The wind is still tossing his hair into his face, making the cursed fire escape wobble back and forth dangerously and Charles grits his teeth. There's nothing for it then. 

With some trepidation he inches his way over to the ladder, and is grateful to find when he gets his hands on it that it seems slightly more secure than the stairs had been. It’s also only a short climb— a few feet, really. Clutching it like a lifeline, Charles hoists himself up and onto the roof. 

First thing he thinks once he's on solid concrete and absolutely sure he’s not about to fall to a tragic and premature death is that Raven had been wrong to call this a garden. Like it’s some sort of quant country garden where someone grows cabbages. 

This is not that; not at all. It’s something grander. 

There is an edging of concrete, and paths cutting through the plots, which are filled with all manner of plants, some of which Charles is sure he has never seen before. Flowers in every color tumble out of the beds, and elegant curling veins spiral up wooden stakes—there is even a delicate glass greenhouse that looks as though it could be blown away in the wind. He stares around, mouth open. How could something like this have been sitting above his head for the past month and he didn’t even know? 

Waddles — always the opportunist— has disappeared. 

Charles walks hesitantly over to one of the beds, quite unable to help himself. This one is full of creamy white roses. They remind him of ones that his mother used to keep, back in the gardens in Westchester. 

Sharon Xavier had never been one for gardening, and though she did like the lawns to look flawless, (as she liked everything to be. That was probably why she had never payed much attention to Charles) she could hire someone for that. But the roses, they had been different. They were something of her pride and joy. Charles remembers how she had actually slapped Cain once, when the boy had trampled one of her rose bushes. For a woman who barely touched or looked at her son and step-son, this had been startling. Charles, who had been six at the time, had walked on eggshells for days afterwards. 

“What are you doing here?” demands a voice from just over his shoulder. A very angry voice. Charles nearly chokes in surprise, whirling around. His eyes go wide as dinner plates.

It’s the man from before, the one he spilled coffee on. Only this time, he’s wearing a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and is hatless. It only serves to draw attention to his pale, striking eyes and chiseled features, and Charles finds himself blushing. He can’t help but think the man looks nicer like this: in the sun, clutching dirt-stained gardening gloves in one hand. Then the man is clearing his throat way more menacingly that anybody should be able to, and Charles thinks, _oh, shit. It’s Lehnsherr,_ because it is. 

“You know, for a Boo Radley type shut-in, you really are quite attractive.” Charles says, then blushes and claps a hand over his mouth. 

He wants to crawl into a hole. Lehnsherr is staring at him as though he has grown another head and honestly he doesn’t blame him. He struggles to regain his footing, mumbling, “I mean, I’m just here for the cat. Not for you. Not that you aren’t worth being here for—oh, God, that sounded strange, didn’t it?” 

For a moment, he’s afraid Lehnsher might punch him—but then the man is chuckling. He has a nice laugh, even if it sounds like it hasn’t been used for a while. He glances at Charles, tilting his head. 

“The cat?” 

Charles nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes, absolutely.” (oh, do shut up now) “Waddles made a bid for freedom, you see. I had to rescue him. And then he went up on the roof and, well, you really do have quite an amazing place up here. Did you plant this all yourself?” 

The man nods slowly, crossing his arms. Okay, so apparently flattery doesn’t really do anything for him. But if anybody is equipped to charm their way out of a bad situation, it’s Charles. If he can stop making a fool of himself first. There is something about Lehnsherr’s sharp, direct gaze that is making him feel as flustered as a teen with a crush. 

“I don’t really know much about plants. Studied genetics, you see. But I’m guessing you… do.” 

“Yes,” says Lehnsherr flatly. His wide, expressive mouth pulls into a frown. “Your cat just climbed onto the fire escape again.” he jerks his head towards the edge of the roof. Charles turns, just in time to see the end of a ginger tail disappearing over the side. 

Charles sighs.“He’s not my cat. But thanks, I guess.” 

Still a bit shaken after his heroic climb up here and the subsequent run-in with Mr. Intimidating Gardener (those two words should not go together at all, but Lehnsherr defies all stereotypes), he turns resolutely on his heel and heads back over to the ladder. “Well, it was great to be here, but I should probably be going now. Duty calls. Cats still need rescuing.” he is just about to grab the ladder when his wrist is caught in a large, sun-warmed hand. 

Charles turns slowly to face him, his eyes wide and very blue. Lehnsherr is barely looking at him, and his grip is loose enough for Charles to pull away if he wanted to—only, maybe he doesn’t. This close, he smells of potting soil and mint toothpaste. This should not be an enticing combination. It is. 

“Don’t be stupid,” growls Lehnsherr. “You’ll break your neck.” 

“But, but, Waddles,” Charles protests, though not with much real fire. He lets the taller man drag him through the garden and over the the roof-top door. Lehnsherr smirks at him over his shoulder, and Charles thinks he can understand why he has the reputation that he does. Handsome or not, the man smiles like a shark. 

“Call the fire department then.” 

He’s manhandled through the door and unto the landing beyond. There is another door here, which must lead into Lehnsherr’s apartment; he doesn’t get much of a chance to look, though. It’s a shame to leave the garden, so newly discovered, behind. Charles finally comes to his senses and gently extricates his arm from the other man’s grip. 

“You don’t have to be so forceful about it, you know.” he admonishes lightly, and holds out his hand, because let it not be said that Charles is anything but polite. “This is about the point where we ought to introduce ourselves, I suppose. Charles Xavier.” 

Lehnsherr takes his hand almost hesitantly, and shakes it. His grip is firm.“Erik.” 

If Charles repeats the name to himself when he reaches his own floor, just to see how it tastes, no one has to know. 

 

When he gets down to her floor, he knocks on Mrs. Marlin’s door, mouth open and ready to apologize, only to find her standing in the doorway clutching Waddles— who looks kind of smug for a cat, Charles thinks. 

“He came right back on his own, can you believe it?” begins Mrs. Marlin wonderingly. She frowns at him then, taking in his rather disheveled and wind-ruffled appearance adding: “Are you alright, dear? I didn’t see you come in from the fire escape.” 

“Quite alright,” says Charles, and realizes he means it. 

====

The next morning, a yawning Charles steps outside of his door—and almost onto an oblong something wrapped in parchment paper. Peeling this back reveals a bouquet of the sweet smelling, creamy roses he had been admiring in Erik’s garden. He smiles slightly, shaking his head, and goes to find some water for them. 

So begins a most peculiar courtship. Well, he thinks its a courtship. Honestly, its a bit hard to tell with someone like Erik. Perhaps this is what the efforts of the aggressively anti-social look like when trying to be friends, it’s not as though he has anything to compare it to. 

Over the period of a week, he receives no less then four bouquets of flowers, but he doesn’t see the man in person once. He can’t seem to quite work up the courage to go and knock on Erik’s door, even though he rather wants to. It gets to the point where his neighbors begin to notice, and then everyone seems to be talking behind his back, speculating about ‘Charles’s suitor.’

“They’re certainly persistent,” Raven remarks dryly. It’s a Saturday, and Charles is currently picking up yet another bouquet from his doorstep—this time, red tulips. He blushes predictably and clucks at her. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, but he’s hiding a smile behind the bouquet. 

Raven makes a face. “Ugh,” she groans, shaking her head. “You’re making me sick with how adorable this is. Seriously, why aren’t you dating them already?” 

“They’re just flowers, Raven. Who says he wants to date me?” he begins, regretting it a second later when Raven lets out a little squeal of excitement. She’s been trying to get Charles to divulge details ever since this whole thing started. 

“So it’s a he. I knew it!” she exclaims, and Charles frowns, because excuse me? “Well, who’s the lucky guy?” 

“Yes, Charles.” This from Azazel, who has just come around the corner, violin cradled under his arm and a wicked grin on his face. “Do tell. We are all anxious to meet the amorous suitor.” there is something Charles doesn’t like about the way he says it, like he knows something Charles doesn’t. 

Charles scowls at them. He all but runs away back into his apartment, slamming the door behind their laughter. Sometimes, he swears this building is the smallest in the world. 

As he puts the flowers into an empty marmalade jar with some water (he ran out of vases a few bouquets ago), he wonders what they would say if they knew that Erik Lehnsherr, their reclusive landlord, was the one leaving flowers for him. Raven would probably say it was romantic, like something out of a movie—Azazel would certainly get a good chuckle out of it. And then he might actually try to introduce himself to Erik, which is an incredibly frightening prospect. 

Rummaging through his cabinets allows him to make the discovery that he is low on quite a few essential food products, so he grabs a sweater and decides to make a quick run out. 

 

Outside, it is one of those lovely, newly minted spring days, and Charles can’t help smiling as he makes his way down the sidewalk. He thinks that it is probably a good day for gardening, and wonders if that is what Erik is doing right now, up on the roof. 

The thought stays with him as he does his shopping, enough that when he’s at the checkout and sees a few packets of seeds being sold nearby, he grabs one before he even really thinks about it. They’re summer squash seeds, apparently. He buys them anyway, even though he doesn’t have a garden, and certainly not one big enough to grow vegetables, leaving the store in fairly high spirits. 

Just as he’s exiting, he runs into a man who has stopped rather suddenly on the sidewalk in front of him. He doesn’t knock him over, but he does knock one of the bags of mulch out of his hands. 

“Oh, sorry!” he exclaims, bending over to help. Only to glance up and see that it is Erik staring down at him, pale eyes filled with amusement. 

Charles smiles nervously. “We have got to stop meeting this way, my friend,” he says, taking some consolation in the fact that Erik looks relatively approachable today, without his customary glare. He watches as Erik hoists the bag back up onto one broad shoulder. The fabric of his shirt stretches pleasantly across his back, and Charles blinks hastily. Honestly, he ought to feel a little ashamed of himself, ogling the man like a thirsty soccer mom at a Calvin Klein convention. 

“How’s the cat?” asks Erik, effectively snapping him from his thoughts. 

He frowns at him for a minute, before he remembers—right, Waddles, cat rescuing— and nods hastily. “Oh, Waddles? He’s fine, the little imp. Ended up climbing right back in the window, if you can believe it. Gave me a bit of a run around. But, er, I guess you knew that already.” 

The man’s voice is carefully deadpan but Charles has the feeling he is laughing at him as he says, “You could say that.”

“So…” Charles waves his arm at the mulch. “Doing some gardening today, or something?” 

“No, I just like the smell of mulch.” Erik says flatly. Then he grins. He still looks like a shark when he does it, but Charles finds it very compelling.“Yes, Charles.” 

“Oh! Er, right. Want some help?” he’s not sure what possesses him to say that, and he resits the urge to clap a hand over his mouth like some carton character. To his horror, Erik hasn’t said anything yet, so he hurriedly amends, “I mean, not to be intrusive, or anything. I’m sure you wanted to have the afternoon to yourself. I’ll just—I’ll just be going, now.” and he turns away, face burning. He feels oddly disappointed, but tells himself to cut it out. He barely knows Erik. 

“Wait.”

Charles glances around, to see Erik scratching his head almost bashfully. “Don’t…” he hefts the bag of mulch meaningfully, “I mean, I could use a hand with this, if the offer still stands.” 

Charles beams at him. 

 

Between the two of them, they get the bag easily up the stairs and onto the sunny roof. The garden is just as impressive as Charles remembers, and he can’t help but let out a little whistle of appreciation, as he looks around.  
“It’s hard to believe you don’t do this full time. What’s your job, again?” he asks, because he realizes all he had really gotten from Raven had been ‘high-powered business man’. 

Erik hands him a pair of well-used gardening gloves, shrugging. “I run a steel company,” he admits. 

Charles blinks at him. “Really? And you live _here?_ ” he says, only to realize that sounds a bit rude. 

Luckily Erik seems to take it in his stride, because he doesn’t sound annoyed when he replies: “Believe it or not, I spent a lot of time at Hemlock when I was a boy. Something about the place stuck with me, I suppose. And plants are… nice. Simple.” he glances around the rooftop thoughtfully, gaze distant. He seems to have been caught in some memory long past; Charles can understand that. 

Charles smiles gently at him, putting at hand on his arm. He tells himself this is not too forward. “Well, it’s very nice up here. I mean it, Erik.” he says quietly, and is gratified to see what he thinks is the barest hint of a blush flit across the other man’s handsome face. “So!” he adds cheerfully, “I’m afraid I don’t know anything in the least about gardening, as I said the other day. You’ll have to show me.” 

Erik responds by grabbing one of Charles’s waving hands and shoving it into a gardening glove. 

======

Charles discovers that Erik looks about ten times more attractive when he is kneeling in a flowerbed. He also discovers that he rather likes gardening. The practice is never something he has really done; as a child, he had always been the bookish sort, prone to colds and anxieties. He had spent much of his time either locked in his room reading, or hiding from Cain in one of the many nooks and crannies of the mansion. Anyway, he's never considered himself the outdoorsy sort. 

Perhaps it is the heady combination of sun and the smell of fresh dirt—or perhaps it is the the company, but Charles finds that he is thoroughly enjoying himself. Erik is obviously intelligent and makes for good conversation, leaving Charles to wonder why the man has made such an effort to estrange himself from the other tenants of the apartments. True, he carries an air of intensity wrapped about him like a cloak, but really, its not enough to have earned him the almost mythical reputation he seems to have. 

Through careful prodding, he discovers Erik was born in Germany (that explains the faint accent) but moved to New York with is late mother when he was just a boy. They had lived in the Hemlock Apartment Complex, and though Charles does not press him, he guesses that the place likely reminds Erik of his mother. While he may be the owner in name, he refers all matters of business with the Hemlock to a woman named Emma Frost, which explains that little peculiarity.

Charles is just digging a hole with a small spade when he remembers the summer squash seeds still sitting in his pocket. He lets out a little exclamation, and Erik furrows his brow at him questioningly. 

“I forgot,” Charles explains, digging into his pocket. “I got these at the store this morning. You’d probably get more use of them than me,” he holds out the packet of seeds to Erik, who blinks at them. Charles’s expression falls somewhat, and he backtracks.“Er, I suppose don’t actually know if you grow vegetables up here. If you don’t want them—“ 

“—Thank you, Charles.” Erik says, quite firmly. He reaches out to take the seeds. And Charles realizes how close Erik is now, finds himself somewhat fascinated by the flecks of green in those gray eyes. The man seems to let off his own personal magnetic pull. Charles—well, Charles is helplessly drawn to it. He can’t help but realize how simple it would be to lean over and kiss Erik, just now. 

_Oh dear._ He thinks hazily. _You’re in trouble._

Erik breaks what undoubtably would look like very strange and charged eye contact to the outside observer by awkwardly clearing his throat and sitting back on his heels. Charles bites his lip, face flushing. Groping about hurriedly for something to say, he blurts out:“How rude of me. I completely forgot to thank you for the flowers. All of them, I mean.” 

Erik frowns. “What flowers?” 

“Yes, the… did you—“Charles’s eyes go wide. “Did you not send them? I just assumed, because of the roses…” he trails off, heart dropping. Erik simply looks confused, shaking his head. 

Suddenly he feels silly. Silly to have assumed, to have thought— _oh_. Only he had thought that Erik might have been trying to court him. But apparently that isn’t true at all and now Charles feels creepy for ogling the man so shamelessly, for blushing so easily— for being so clearly enamored. 

“Charles?” it's Erik, sounding concerned. 

Charles can’t quite bring himself to look at him quite yet. Instead he pushes himself to his feet, brushing the dirt off of his jeans. “Well thats—I only just remembered I have somewhere to be. I’ve got tons of files to go through, and I should probably get them in by Monday…” he pulls of his gardening gloves. 

“…Oh.” begins Erik slowly. It’s hard to read his expression, but Charles thinks it is a confused one. With something else that he doesn’t recognize. “Don’t let me keep you,” he finishes lamely, and Charles thinks, _I wish you would._

But of course he doesn’t say anything. He gives Erik an awkward half-wave goodbye, muttering, “Er, thank you. I’ll just—” and hurries back over the to door, leaving Erik standing in the middle of the flower bed behind him. If he turns around now, he might just catch the peculiar expression on Erik’s face. But he doesn’t. 

It’s only when he reaches the cool shade of his apartment that Charles has enough distance to feel truly embarrassed. He doesn’t suppose he could have been any more obvious about that… and he fears he may have just ruined any chance of friendship he had ever had with his prickly landlord. With a groan, he lets his head drop into his hands. 

He goes to get himself a glass of scotch, because this is the kind of thing that drives people to alcoholism. 

 

Charles stays in his apartment on Sunday, even though its another beautiful day that is not at all suitable for moping. He thinks it ought to be raining, and spends an hour or so brooding about this over a mug of Earl Grey tea. He doesn’t want to see anybody today, partially because of his injured pride. Partially because he drank a lot of scotch last night and now his head feels like a limpet. 

At noon, there is a knocking at his door. 

“Chaaarles.” comes Raven’s muffled voice. “What’re you doing in there? You’ve got daises tapped to your door.” 

Charles takes a sip of his tea, which tastes ashy. He is still feeling pouty and finds he does not want to have to put on a charming smile for anybody. Staying quiet, he resolutely decides to pretend not to be home. Or perhaps asleep. 

He is surprised that when he next hears Raven’s voice, she sounds concerned. 

“Are you alright? You aren’t sick or anything, right?” she knocks again. “Don’t make me break down this door.” 

Knowing Raven, she might actually do it. So Charles opens the door. Raven is wearing a neon blue dress today, and she’s holding a bouquet of daisies. She whistles at the sight of him, eyes widening. 

“Yes?” he says expectantly. 

“Woah. You look like shit.” 

Charles scowls at her and starts to close the door. “Thank you, Raven.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that.” she scolds, pushing past him before he can close the door completely and into his apartment. “Who do I need to beat up, then?” she sounds only half joking, and Charles sighs at her. 

He stays silent as she gets out a tall glass and deposits the cheerful looking flowers in it, slumping back into his armchair. He scuffs his feet on the floor, only to stop a second later because Raven is staring at him. 

“Raven, who do _you_ think has been leaving those?” he jerks his head at the flowers. 

She taps her chin. “Well, I don’t really know. They always do it way before I get up in the morning. But—“ she glances at him from the corner of her eye, and admits quietly, “is it strange that I thought it might be Lehnsherr? He’s the only one with access to that many flowers, when you think about it. I don’t know, I thought maybe you had caught his eye with your charming British sensibilities, or something, and this is his pathetic attempt at wooing you.” 

Charles laughs darkly. “Yeah. Well. That’s kind of far-fetched. Nevermind, forget I asked.” 

Raven is squinting at him. She smacks him on the shoulder, suddenly stern. Charles opens his mouth to ask her what the hell she’s doing, but she beats him to it. “I’m not going to let you just sit inside and drown yourself in Earl Grey, if that’s what you intend on doing. It’s the weekend. Come to my place tonight. I’m having another party.” she says firmly, and Charles makes a face at her. “No buts—I’ll get Azazel to drag you there again if I have to. ” 

Charles can’t help but laugh at her, touched by her persistence. He runs a hand through his mussed brown hair and gives her a consternated look, but without much real fire to it. Raven smiles. She knows she has won. 

=====

 

Charles does not see Erik again over the next few days, which suits him just fine as he still feels awkward about it. The way he had practically ran away from the man like that— it must be pretty obvious that he had been disappointed that Erik is not the one sending the flowers. Speaking of which, they have mysteriously stopped appearing, leaving Charles with more than a few burning questions. 

Fortunately, work picks up somewhat on Monday, causing him to be sufficiently distracted from all thoughts of flowers (and the man who grows them). 

Perhaps he throws himself into it with a little too much vigor, actually; by the time Wednesday rolls around, he has himself a terrible cold. Stubbornly he blames it on the weather, which after the beautiful sunny weekend promptly devolves into days as rainy as the day that Charles had first moved to the Hemlock Apartment Complex. 

Azazel has been rather scarce lately as well, so Charles is surprised to find the man knocking on his door one morning, when Charles is laid up on his couch feeling absolutely miserable. 

He doesn’t wait for Charles to get up, but lets himself inside, tutting softly. “You should consider locking this door. Safety is important, in this day and age.”

Charles smiles weakly at him from under a sweaty arm. He is lying in a pile of used tissues and is not feeling exactly presentable right now, so its a bit strange to be talking to the impeccably dressed Azazel. For his part, the man politely does not point this out. 

“Sorry. Haven’t really—“ he’s cut off by a rather ugly cough. “Ugh. As you can see, I’ve been a bit indisposed. Bloody awful cold.” 

He peers up to see that the man is setting a hot cup of Starbucks tea onto the table, and he sits up, blinking bleary eyes.“Thanks, Azazel. What do I owe you?” he makes a move for his wallet, which is lying somewhere on the living room table—but quick as anything, Azazel is gently pushing his hand away. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Charles.” he says sternly. “You are ill.” 

 

That’s how Charles ends up nursing a steaming cup of Earl Gray as he listens to Azazel read from one of his books of classic poetry. He’s just slipping into contented, welcome sleep, when a thought suddenly occurs to him, and he sits up. Why sudden epiphanies always occur to him when his voice sounds like it has been grated with something and his head is pounding, he’ll never know. 

“Wait a second.” he says, cutting the other man off in mid-stanza. “Azazel. You know Erik Lehnsherr, don’t you?” he’s honestly surprised he had not guessed it earlier. Azazel has obviously lived in the building a long time, and whats more, he’s practically the only tenant who doesn’t have a Lehnsherr horror story. 

Azazel sets his book carefully down on the table, turning a rather sly expression on Charles. “I consider Erik a dear friend.” there is an unspoken sort of 'I was wondering when you were going to ask' there. 

Charles stares. He feels as though the pieces of something are slowly falling into place in his mind, like some sort of giant jigsaw puzzle, if only his head would stop aching long enough for him to consider it properly. 

“I think,” begins Azazel thoughtfully, “that you also consider Erik a friend. Do you not?” 

Charles frowns at him. “I.. what makes you say that?” he says, mostly just to be contrary. Azazel smiles indulgently in return, patting his knee. 

“I have seen you exit his apartment on two occasions this past week. Furthermore, casually as you prefer to dress, it is not typical for you to have dirt stains on your clothes. I can only conclude that you have been gardening.” 

“Oh.” Charles is not blushing. He’s not. It’s just his cold that is making his cheeks feel hot. “Erik is…” he trails off, because he doesn’t quite have the words for what Erik is yet. Intriguing? Surprisingly kind? Really attractive and funny and… Charles swallows. 

Turning to Azazel, he fixes the man with an ernest expression. “What do you know about the meaning of flowers?” 

====

In the end, Charles chooses gardenias. According to Azazel (and google) they are supposed to indicate innocence and ‘secret love’. Also, that the giver thinks the receiver is lovely. All of these are accurate more or less. Only he’s not sure if he would call what he's feeling love— its far too soon for that—but it seems an decent enough choice. Also, they were on sale. 

It has been a few days since he had his chat with Azazel, and while his cold is mostly if not completely gone, the rain lingers. It is lucky that Charles is used to England, where gray and rainy days came with tired regularity, otherwise he might be a bit put out by it. 

“Charles,” says Mrs. Marlin when he comes into the lobby. “Off to a date then, dear?” she sounds only a touch disappointed. Since Waddles’ great escape, she has been keeping a slightly tighter rein on the ‘little darlings’ and therefor he has not yet had to preform any further rescues. 

Charles smiles nervously at her, lifts the bouquet with one hand. “Well, you know. A man needs to buy flowers sometimes. And it’s been so rainy lately, I thought the apartment could use a lift.” he explains. His hand is sweaty where he’s gripping the flowers, because no, if everything goes as planned the last place these flowers are going to end up is in a marmalade jar in his apartment. 

“Is that right?” Mrs. Marlin squints at him. “Seventy three years, and there’s still a lot I don’t understand about men.” 

He may give her one of the gardenias before he starts up the stairs. It’s worth it to see her smile and titter like a school girl. 

 

Now, standing outside of Erik’s door, Charles feels somewhat conflicted. The gardenias are hanging from one hand, but he keeps staring at the door to Erik’s department, quite unable to knock. 

It’s been a week since he last spoke to Erik; and he still feels they parted on awkward terms. What if the man goes back to glowering and not speaking to Charles, as he had been on first meeting?

He raises a fist, then lowers it. Shifts from foot to foot. Snuffles a bit (his nose is still a little stuffy, thanks). 

“Oh, stop being such a pansy.” he tells himself, and then is amused at his own pun. _Bet Erik grows pansies out in his garden._ Straightening, he finger combs his hair and is just taking a step forward, ready to knock this time, when the door flies open and hits him in the nose. 

He says: “Fucking hell!” the same time that Erik says: “Charles?” 

Rubbing his nose, Charles cringes a little. It feels hot under the touch and his head is spinning. Erik looks mortified. He takes a halting step toward Charles, hands outstretched uselessly as though he's not quite sure how you go about comforting someone. Dimly, Charles kept help but notice that he is dressed in jogging clothes and that they fit him very well.“My god, are you okay?” 

“You—“ Charles coughs. “You actually ran into _me_ this time. That’s the first time.” 

Erik shakes his head, but a smile is beginning to spread across his face. “Charles…” there is something warm and expectant in his voice as he says this and its doing funny things to Charles’s stomach. 

He shifts his feet, all too aware of the flowers still clutched in one hand. He shoves them forward in one quick movement—so he can’t second guess himself—and looks resolutely over the other man’s shoulder. 

“I er. I got you flowers. To thank you for the gardening lesson.” 

He senses rather than actually sees that Erik is doing that creepy shark smile again. The realization shouldn’t be making his heart leap like that. Breath catching in his throat, he begins to back away, towards the stairs. “I suppose I’ll just—“ 

“—Charles.” Erik interjects, catching his shoulder. Charles stills at once, his heart beating very fast.  
He glances at Erik, to see that the man is looking at him intently. “You’re always running away before I can talk to you. You’re a hard man to pin down.” the way he says this last part sends a delicious shiver running down Charles’s spine, all the way to his toes. Before he even really realizes it, they are leaning closer together, breath mingling. 

“I’m just getting over a cold. I’m probably contagious,” Charles warns him, but if anything he just leans closer. He can pick out the flecks of green in the other’s eyes again and finds that looking away is really hard right now--and really, who would want to do that? “You’re grumpy and anti-social, and I’ve spilled coffee on you—I chased a cat into your garden! This, this is probably not the best idea in the world.” he blurts this out in a rush, and while he knows its true, his voice has gone all soft. 

Erik chuckles, tightening his grip on the other’s shoulders. “You aren’t getting away that easily.” 

_Oh, to hell with it._

“I’m not going anywhere,” Charles breathes, and kisses him. 

The flowers slip out of his fingers and onto the floor, quite forgotten. 

 

Later (after they have somehow found their way into the foyer of the apartment) Erik laughs into his mouth and says “Gardenias? Really?” Charles pulls away long enough from kissing him to smack him on the arm. 

“Oh, shut up. Google says they’re romantic. Innocence and all that.” 

A wolfish grin spreads across Erik’s face, and he brackets the smaller man against the wall. Leaning very close, he mutters into his ear: “Innocence, Charles?” 

Charles shivers pleasantly. 

=====

When Charles makes it back to his own apartment, it is getting late. The rain is still pounding down outside, making everything smell like damp earth and growing things. It provides a sense of cleanness to a city that so rarely, if ever, smells clean. 

His hair is mussed beyond the point that finger combing can cure, his face is flushed, but all and all Charles is feeling pretty good about himself. 

He almost misses Azazel’s soft chuckle from where it comes down the dark hall. Charles stops, hand stilling on the knob. The conclusion that had eluded him when he had been sick is now fixed with a bright spotlight. Cue canned audience gasp. 

“Wait a second. Don’t tell me…” he begins slowly, eyes widening.

Azazel grins and gives him a little wave. 

“You bastard!” Charles snaps, and hits him on the shoulder of his crisp, expensive suit. “You were the one leaving those flowers! And to think that I—I actually thought—this was your plan all along!“ 

In the annoyingly unruffled manner that is typical to him, the older man casually brushes Charles’s blow away and shrugs saying, “I thought that you would make a fine pair.” he glances pointedly at Charles’s mussed hair, which must look indecent, and adds smugly “It would seem that I was correct.”

Charles flushes self-righteously and tries to distract from it by looking pious. “God, I shouldn't even be surprised, knowing you. But really, Azazel, you can’t just meddle in other people’s lives like that.” 

“Why?” Azazel cocks his head at him. He seems genuinely ernest when he continues, “I'm fond of Erik. And I am fond of you. I see no reason why my patience should be tested.” 

There are a lot of things wrong with that statement (first of all it sounds a bit creepy) and yet Charles doesn’t have quite the heart to argue with him. It might be because he has just landed himself a strange gardener boyfriend and is feeling pretty great right now, thank you very much—but maybe not. Either way, he feels perfectly justified by simply punching Azazel lightly on the shoulder again. If he’s smiling slightly as he does it, its too dark for anybody to tell. 

“What’s this about Erik?” 

It’s Raven. She looks back and forth between Charles and Azazel, eyes slowly going wide in understanding. He can practically see her jumping to conclusions as she raises her eyebrows at him expectantly. “Charles!?” 

The man in question beats a hasty but (certainly) not cowardly retreat back into his apartment.

=====

Outside, the rain continues to fall. The clock has just struck midnight, and now it's a Tuesday again. It’s been a month and a few weeks since Charles Xavier first moved here. The lights of the city are hidden somewhat by the darkness and great sheets of rain, and inside the building everything is quiet. 

Big, soaking drops drip down onto the fresh earth in the rooftop garden of the Hemlock Apartment Complex, turning the dirt to the color of coffee. The garden, for its part, grows slowly and quietly. It’s not in any rush.

**Author's Note:**

> ...and done! 
> 
> Okay, confession time. I was inspired to include the character of Azazel as prominently as I did because of the writings of a one Ook. I really like how they portray Azazel as a character and its really rare to see him getting much screen-time in this fandom. He seemed like the perfect choice for Charles's eccentric neighbor, but I never would have even thought of including him in a fic if it weren't for that, so I felt like I should say something. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this little oneshot. It's really sappy and kind of rushed but I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing it. Like, I was smiling to myself the whole time. Also, if its not entirely clear, I know nothing about gardening or the language of flowers. If you want to look up what different flowers mean, this is the website I used: http://www.theflowerexpert.com/content/aboutflowers/flower-meanings
> 
> Honestly the real mystery here is how Azazel could have possibly known about the roses. Lucky guess?


End file.
